The Forest of Lost Souls (34 page)

Despite her firm words, Zoe felt like a tightrope walker. She was
treading
a thin line between two worlds, balancing above a sheer drop. She was burning to ask one last thing—a question that could be the deal-breaker.

“Why didn’t you take me with you seven months ago?”

Although she spoke coldly, she felt as though she was on fire. Mortimer watched her carefully, never taking his eyes off hers for a second, his hands on her shoulders. Zoe held his gaze. She was about to hear the verdict. She’d had high hopes of this meeting and knew how disappointed she would be if her hopes were dashed. She mentally prepared herself, knowing the wrong answer wouldn’t hurt any less.

“We didn’t have a choice,” replied Mortimer.

Zoe paused, before saying:

“If, as you say, you still care about me, then please don’t lie. Not today…

Why didn’t you take me with you?”

A strong gust shook the trees and some branches crashed down around the two cousins, as if to symbolize the inevitable outcome of their meeting.

“Why?”

Mortimer hesitated, then told Zoe what she’d dreaded hearing:

“We needed you to stay. We wanted you to get close to the Pollocks!”

Zoe broke away from his grasp and took a few steps back. Devastated by the truth, she staggered over to a large tree and leant against it, feeling winded. A few yards away, Mortimer was watching her apologetically. It was the sadness she saw in his eyes which stopped her from giving vent to her anger at him.

“Go now!” she cried. “And remember: your father doesn’t care about anyone! No one at all!”

She turned to face the tree, put her hands against the trunk and pushed with a heart-rending scream. The tree trembled then, with a sinister creak, crashed to the ground.

“M
Y
Y
OUNG
G
RACIOUS IS GIVING A DISPLAY OF GREAT
elegance in her attire, my appreciation is dressed in honesty.”

“Thank you, Lunatrix, you’re very kind!” replied Oksa, studying her reflection in the mirror.

“Kindness is not the motivation of your domestic staff,” said the Lunatrix with a loud sniffle. Oksa glanced at the small, plump creature standing beside her. Grief-stricken at the loss of his mate, the Lunatrix looked as pale and tense as all the Runaways.

“How… do you feel, Lunatrix?”

“The survival of the body is tantamount to an involuntary reaction, my Young Gracious, because the heart of your domestic staff has the steadfastness of a muscle that commands automatic beating. But this heart prolongs survival while suffering the unbearable absence of she who assured his accompaniment for decades.”

Oksa hung her head, overwhelmed by emotion. She crouched down and hugged the Lunatrix. For some strange reason, as soon as she touched the small, plump body a feeling of well-being came over her, as refreshing as a sip of cold water trickling down a parched throat.

“Does the Young Gracious experience restlessness?”

“I can’t wait to see Mum again,” she sighed. “You know a great many
things, Lunatrix, so is there anything you can tell me about that?” she went on, remembering that the Lunatrix only provided information when asked.

“The mother of the Young Gracious is experiencing the agony of being kept apart from her loved ones, but is not suffering from a worsening of her state of health. The nurse named Annikki distributes treatment filled with efficacy owing to the medical skills of some of the accursed Felons.”

“You mean they have some Lasonillia?”

The Lunatrix shook his head.

“The accursed Felons do not possess the supreme remedy because, in alignment with the information delivered by the Fairyman, the supreme remedy is encountered only in Edefia, in the territory of the Distant Reaches where its growth is profuse. But the accursed Felons have alighted upon the mastery of certain medications which produce the stabilization of feverish conditions such as the one endured by the mother of the Young Gracious. And your domestic staff can communicate the declaration that the mother of the Young Gracious will soon encounter a reunion with the Runaways, the assertion is absolute.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?” said Oksa.

The Lunatrix gazed at her sadly.

“The domestic staff of the Gracious is exempt from a capacity for untruths. The Young Gracious should be overflowing with certainty and possess permanent confidence in her Lunatrix.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry, Lunatrix,” continued Oksa, patting his head. “I’m just so worried…”

“The Young Gracious has the disposal of explanations from the Tumble-Bawler, which presented reports stuffed with comforting details from the Sea of the Hebrides. But has she encountered the idea of
tendering
questions to the Squoracle?”

“No!” exclaimed Oksa, smacking her forehead with her palm. “Thanks, Lunatrix, you’re right, the Squoracle is bound to know something!”

She raced upstairs and burst into her gran’s apartment.

“Can I see the Squoracle for a minute, Baba? Please!”

Dragomira nodded, motioning with her eyes to the open double-bass case. Oksa disappeared inside and ran up to the private workroom. She was welcomed by the Getorix, feather duster in hand, tossing its mane of hair.

“Hello, elegant Young Gracious!”

“Hello, Getorix! Do you know where the Squoracle is?”

“Who is that person?”

Standing in the middle of the room, the Incompetent was staring at Oksa in bewilderment. The Getorix sighed, raising its eyes skyward.

“And who’s that talking hairball?”

“Hey, Incompetent!” shouted the hairball in question. “Take a good look: I’m the Ge-to-rix.”

“Getorix? What a delightful name. Have we met?”

“Yes! A trifling eighty years ago!”

“Oh! That explains it then,” said the Incompetent in relief.

Oksa burst out laughing, as she did every time the Incompetent opened its wide, toothless mouth.

“It doesn’t get any better,” she remarked, laughing even louder at the soft-headed creature’s joyful expression.

“It never will,” grumbled the Getorix in exasperation. “You wanted to see the Squoracle, didn’t you? It’s over there, by the fire.”

Oksa walked over to the hearth and spotted the Squoracle snuggled under a tiny blanket, just inches away from the still-glowing embers from the night before.

“Squoracle!” she whispered, gently rocking the tiny hen with her fingertips.

The Squoracle jumped as if on springs. Its eyes bulging, it surveyed the room, turning its head like a radar.

“I sense a draught from the north-north-west,” it remarked severely. “I suspect that the window over there isn’t insulated and is allowing heat to escape from the workroom!”

It shot a black look at one of the skylights, then crawled back under its blanket. Oksa crouched down level with the miniature hen.

“Squoracle, I need your help.”

“If you’ve come to tell me that, at long last, we’re leaving this country with its inhospitable climate to move to the tropics, then I’m more than ready!” it squawked, waggling the feathers on its head.

“Um… you do know that England has a relatively temperate climate, don’t you?” remarked Oksa.

“You must be joking!” retorted the Squoracle. “This wind-blown country with its appalling level of rainfall?”

This discussion was hardly new, but it amused Oksa every time. She stifled her laughter to avoid upsetting the tiny hen, while the Ptitchkins dive-bombed them from above.

“Snow flurries have been forecast for the middle of the day,”
chirruped
one.

“… accompanied by a spectacular drop in temperature!” continued the other.

Oksa shot them a merry glance and bit her lower lip to prevent a snort of laughter. The Squoracle tucked its blanket snugly around itself, squawking shrilly in protest.

“I’ll protect you, Squoracle!” said Oksa.

“Promise?” asked the hen, popping its beak out of the blanket.

“Of course! You can count on me: I’d never let you freeze. But before something awful like that happens, I wanted to ask you something…”

“Yes?”

“Do you know… what’s in store for us? And for my mother?”

“I can’t predict the future but, as the Tumble-Bawler told you, your mother is on an uninhabitable island—climatically speaking, of course.

She is being treated very well, though. The Felons have a vested interest in keeping her healthy: if something happened to her, it would immediately put paid to any possible negotiation.”

Oksa frowned.

“Your mother is the Felons’ only guarantee of returning to Edefia when the Runaways have decided at last to leave this frozen land. She’s the key that will provide access, if I can put it like that.”

“Are you saying that I won’t see her again before we go to Edefia?” Oksa’s face fell and a wave of panic washed over her. “Please explain.”

“What I’m saying is that I’m dreading this expedition, which is bound to be horrible from a climatic point of view, but a showdown between the Runaways and the Felons is inevitable. That’s why you’ll see your mother again soon. She has a vital role to play in the return to Edefia, for the Runaways and for the Felons. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Is she… okay?”

“She’s much better,” declared the Squoracle. “Thanks to Mercedica, the Felons know some of the secret formulas devised by the Old Gracious and the Fairyman to treat your mother. They’ve adapted these and have used them successfully.”

Oksa gave a long sigh and stared into space for a moment, not sure whether she felt relieved or even more worried.

“What about Orthon?” boomed a deep voice behind her.

Oksa turned round and realized in surprise that the conversation had attracted quite an audience: all the Runaways were there, listening attentively.

“The hated Felon Orthon is now completely reconstructed,” informed the Squoracle. “He regained his strength as a result of the months spent inside young Zelda’s body, profiting from the warmth and vigour of her blood—with the emphasis on warmth, which is in such short supply in this frozen land. The Goranov plant stolen from the Old Gracious was an essential ingredient for his reconstruction—large quantities of sap were extracted to permit cellular reformation.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what a state the Goranov must be in,” said Oksa. “I hope the Felons at least took the time to milk it.”

“It’s in their interest to do so if they want the Goranov to survive!” retorted the Squoracle, shivering. “The brutal incisions performed at one
time were the primary cause of death for the Goranovs. Just as exposure to abnormally low temperatures is extremely dangerous for hypersensitive creatures of my species… Is that a blizzard I can hear howling outside?”

Oksa tucked the blanket tighter around the tiny hen and settled it nearer the embers, before turning to the semicircle of Runaways.

“It’s still hard to take…” she said with a lump in her throat.

“Remember, Dushka,” said Dragomira, “the Squoracle can only tell you what’s true now. Things are constantly changing and what might be true at one moment may be false the next. Everything hinges on the circumstances, the people involved and how they react: some provoke change, while others maintain the status quo. One thing’s certain though: we must be very careful, whatever we decide to do.”

“Are we going to rescue Mum?” ventured Oksa, her voice trembling.

“We can’t wait for ever!” added Pavel angrily.

“You’re right, Pavel,” confirmed Abakum. “We’re in a weak position, even though the ball is in our court. At the moment, the Felons have no reason to take action and expose themselves to attack: they know you’ve been Disimpictured, they have a Goranov plant and Malorane’s medallion, there are quite a few of them and they can lay their plans in the utmost secrecy on that island. Most importantly, Marie represents an invaluable advantage. I’m with the Squoracle on that point: any return to Edefia depends on Marie—both for us and for the Felons.”

“Unless Orthon believed me when I said we could leave without her…” said Oksa, paling.

An awful thought had her struggling to catch her breath.

“If he believes we don’t need her to go back to Edefia, he’ll kill her! Why on earth did I tell him that? Why?” she cried.

The Runaways stared at her, startled by a logical argument that could have such serious consequences. After a second of sheer panic, Dragomira and Abakum exchanged approving glances.

“What you say makes sense, Dushka,” declared the Old Gracious. “But Orthon doesn’t think like that.”

Oksa looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Orthon knows we’re incapable of abandoning one of our number to achieve our goal,” continued Abakum. “When it comes down to it, we could have continued without Gus, but we chose to be Impictured to rescue him, didn’t we? Orthon knows what dangers we’ve faced and the risks we’ve taken. Would he have been able to do what we did? It’s doubtful and, in his heart of hearts, he knows it.”

Oksa considered what Abakum had said for a few seconds—the Fairyman could be very persuasive.

“I know Orthon well,” broke in Reminiscens, her voice sad and
serious
. “He’s my twin brother and the kind of people he surrounds himself with are no different from the ones who hung around my father, Ocious. They’re powerful men and women, but they’re only motivated by their own ambition. They join forces to achieve their ends and use each other to succeed. The strongest will climb to the top of the pyramid and anyone who’s helped them will earn a place at their side.”

“Are we any different?” asked Dragomira quietly.

“I think you’re underestimating the spirit of the Runaways. It’s a powerful force,” replied Reminiscens, “which has nothing to do with the Gracious’s powers, Pavel’s Ink Dragon or the Fairyman’s talents. I’m talking about the spirit that governs the Runaways’ hearts and minds, the natural goodness that makes us all unusual. What unites us is totally different from what brings the Felons together: we regard power as a way of achieving harmony while the Felons see it as something they can use to rule. Don’t worry, Oksa: you certainly gave Orthon something to think about when you bluffed about returning to Edefia without Marie, but he won’t touch a hair on her head. She’s a trump in the game that will finally allow him to be reunited with the man who’s his greatest weakness and his greatest strength: our father, Ocious.”